


Witch's Milk

by cormallen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Lactation Kink, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 15:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cormallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the spnkink_meme for the prompt Sam/Dean, mpreg and lactation, so. Um. Click accordingly!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Witch's Milk

Sam's not in the room when Dean gets in; he pulls off his jacket, throws keys and wallet onto the nightstand and looks around.

"Sam?"

"In here," Sam calls from the bathroom, and oh, yeah, now Dean can hear the shower going, the door cracked open just a bit.

He pulls on the shower curtain, ready to get a face full of water or maybe – hopefully – to be asked in, _dude, you're letting the heat out; don't just stand there_, but Sam doesn't do either.

Loofah in hand, he's scrubbing over his chest, stopping to worry at each nipple. He pulls at them, pinches, strokes with the pad of his thumb, like he's – waiting for something to happen, and Dean is mystified.

"The hell are you doing?"

"I, uh," Sam says, dropping the loofah. "I read about it in this book. I guess it's something you can do to, you know. Prepare them. For the baby."

The baby.

It's been months, but up until now, the baby has been a thing almost separate from Sam in Dean's head. He knows, as he knows his own name, as he knows that the sun rises and sets every day, that Sam's belly has been getting bigger. That he'd been sick some mornings and asked for tomatoes with peanut butter on others. And yeah, Dean's put his hands on the warm, tight skin of Sam's stomach, felt for what he swore was a kick. He knows that in a few more months, there _will_ be a baby and everything that comes with it – sleepless nights and diaper changes and a baby seat in his car – but somehow, he didn't think it would include – _that_.

Sam is gonna – wow.

"Wow," he says again, this time out loud, floored by the thought. The idea that for all intents and purposes, Sam will be just like the baby's mother. _Is_ the baby's mother. Sam. His brother. Shit, when did their lives become this?

"Did you know," Sam says hoarsely, turning off the shower, "that sometimes newborn babies can lactate for a couple of days? Because of the mother's hormones affecting them during the pregnancy?"

"Uh, no," Dean says, unsure if he's supposed to be grossed out or impressed with how much Sam's been preparing for this. How much he's looked up, how much he's – adapted. And it's not like this curse has been all flowers and puppies for Dean, either, but he's not the one who has to actually physically do this. He's not the one who has a baby inside him.

"Yeah. They call it witch's milk – people used to think witches would make it happen, then steal it from the babies, while they were sleeping, to feed their demonic familiars."

"Huh. Who's to say they didn't?" Dean counters, throwing Sam a towel. Sam's dick is half-hard against his thigh, below the round swell of his belly, and maybe Dean should feel disgusted. Maybe this is more – so much more fucked up than anything they've ever dealt with, but he looks at Sam and all he feels is want.

Sam's pecs are swollen, the skin a darker pink than the rest of his body. They don't look like a woman's tits, not the kind Dean's used to seeing, anyway. He has a vague memory of Allie, a girl he dated – though dated might be a very strong word – when he was sixteen and going to the school in Fairfield – hers had been small, pretty, little more than a mouthful, barely filling the cotton cups of her little pink bra. She'd let him put her hands up her shirt, then take it off, let him cup the soft skin, pinch and suck on the nipples. Sam's kind of remind him of that, and shit, is the baby really gonna be – is there gonna be enough?

Sam is rubbing at his hair with the big towel, grabbing his boxers and shirt from the sink. His nipples are dark, almost angry looking, and Dean wants to touch them, taste them, soothe the red, aching points with his mouth.

"Can I?" he asks. "Here, let me," takes the wet towel and the clothes from Sam's hands, leans down and swirls his tongue around the shape of the muscle, circling in. Feels the little areola getting all goosefleshed under his lips. Latches on to Sam's nipple and feels it harden further in his mouth. And maybe this means they're really fucked up, but Dean doesn't care.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, pulling back, and Sam shakes his head.

"No. It's – don't stop. Aches, but feels good, too, fuck, _Dean_," he moans, hips giving a little thrust against Dean's jean-covered leg, and _oh_, Sam's all the way hard now, pushing into him, rubbing, grinding.

"Hang on, hang on, I gotcha," Dean mumbles, getting a hand between them, wrapping his fingers around Sam's dick, smooth hot flesh jumping at the touch. He pulls Sam closer with his free arm, splays his palm over his back, feels the little droplets of water from the shower trickling down Sam's spine and over his own skin.

"Dean," Sam moans again, needy and insistent, and Dean leans in, mouths at one swollen nipple, trails his tongue across Sam's chest and to the other.

_Wet from the shower_, he thinks, fastening his mouth around it, but the taste is decidedly not water, a strange salty-sweet, and it surprises Dean enough to lift his head, hand going still on Sam's cock.

Sam's face is flushed red, teeth hitching over his lower lip, broadcasting _ashamed_ as loudly as if he actually said it.

"Dean, I – " he starts, but Dean doesn't let him finish.

"I want," he says decisively, brings his hand up to thumb curiously at the moisture slicking the areola and feels Sam shiver, breath stuttering in his chest. "I want, Sammy," he repeats, and fuck, he _does_. Wants everything Sam has, everything Sam is, and maybe that's not anything he's ever gonna say out loud, but he knows he means it.

"Always want you," he says instead, still feeling himself blush – maybe not as bad as Sam. Hopefully. "Was thinking of maybe moving this to the bed, though. What do you say?"


End file.
